


Sempre Agitato

by Curupia



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Charlie the Dog - Freeform, Confused Will Graham, Dark Will Graham, Declarations Of Love, Depression, Drowning, First Kiss, Hannibal is just trying to make a life for them, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Introspection, M/M, Momentarily, Murder Husbands, Not first person, POV Will Graham, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Psychological Trauma, Suicidal Thoughts, You've been warned, and Will is being a mess, but definitely a bunch of angst in there, non-explicit murder, whats new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 22:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19159939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curupia/pseuds/Curupia
Summary: Will found bliss that night on the cliff, but he's having a hard time getting it back now that they've made it out of the ocean alive. He will do almost anything to get it back, but does he really have to look that far?Lots of angst, a little bit of comfort, some murder, a dog, and even a happy ending. What more could you ask for?Trigger warning: mentions of suicide, description of drowning by choice





	Sempre Agitato

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if I need to add any other trigger warnings or tags please!
> 
> This story came out of nowhere and literally demanded I write it over the course of three days. I hope you enjoy it. If you do, please leave a comment! I'd love to know what you think.

He thought it was all over that night.

For the first time, there was stillness in his body, silence in his head. The crescendo of _buzzing_ , for lack of a better word, which had been building and building for so long had finally, _finally_ resolved.

The hands clinging to Hannibal were _his own_. The eyes that looked upon the carnage, that saw, really truly _saw_ , the beauty in the design were _his own_. The words that fell from his lips, breathed into Hannibal’s lungs, were _his own_. It was overwhelming in its perfection. He could have died that night in bliss, taking Hannibal over the edge with him forever entwined – two halves becoming whole, the merging of bones and blood, of skin and self. He had never felt more alive, more _himself_ , on the precipice of death, so fully a part of another. He marveled in it, let the feeling wash over him as the ocean waves licked at his skin and pulled him down deeper. Sights, sounds, smells, all washed away, all faded to black as he let himself exist in that fragile moment between existence and oblivion. It was as akin to bliss as any other definition he could conjure. Surely the closest he’d ever come.

It was _perfection_.

But then he was waking, pulled to consciousness by a voice, rough and raw but music to his dampened ears. Hands tore at his clothes, groped at his limbs, pressed against his leaking wounds, and he let them. Let himself be dragged and manhandled, stitched up and force-fed into something resembling a living creature eventually. His body knitted itself together, with Hannibal’s ample guidance, while his mind did its best to stay back in the water, in that in between state that was every day becoming more and more a distant memory.

* * *

 

Weeks passed and their bodies healed. They moved frequently at first, careful about never letting their faces become familiar. They finally settled somewhere in South America - Will had stopped trying to keep track of the seemingly endless safe houses Hannibal had in his back pocket.

Will’s headaches returned. Not the fevered, skull melting ones caused by the encephalitis, but the ones he could always rely on making him uncomfortable, like an unwelcome relative - dull aches pressing behind his eyes every time he was around someone new; a crowd of people or one on one, it didn’t matter. It was always the same.

Hannibal noticed - _of course he did_.

Will returned from only his third turn picking up the essentials in town earlier than he’d told Hannibal to expect him. He’d intended to make a day of it, but it was unusually nice weather and the small market he’d visited twice before had filled up to capacity by ten. There was nowhere to move without bumping into someone else, no way to hide from the overwhelmingly loud scents and sounds that assaulted him at every turn. The moods - _cheerful, agitated, bored, impatient_ \- enveloped him like a cocoon, fogging his mind and shutting down any momentary peace he’d woken with that morning. Maybe before he could have handled it, but since the fall, everything had simply been himself and Hannibal. His senses were fine-tuned to the two of them and everything else felt foreign and wrong. It had been difficult enough to handle this amount of stimuli when he was used to it, now though, he was out of practice and overwhelmed. He grabbed whatever was on the way back towards his car and left as soon as he could.

Upon arriving home - the fourth “home” they’d inhabited since they’d washed ashore - he closed his burning eyes and followed the sound of Hannibal’s knife on the cutting board to their small combined kitchen and dining room. He dropped the too-light canvas bags to the ground as he crossed the threshold and found his way to Hannibal with his eyes still closed, trusting the man would (probably) not let him accidentally walk into his knife.

“Will,” Hannibal started to speak, but stopped immediately at the whimper that emitted from Will’s clenched jaw.

“Shhh.” _He just needed..._

A _thunk_ of the knife being set down and a rustle of hands being wiped on a towel and then there were arms, strong and deliberate, that pulled him in, holding him firm against hard muscles and soft flesh. A long fingered hand in his hair, at the base of his skull, kneading, holding, guiding his head, turning his face to press against warm flesh rough with a week’s worth of beard.

He breathed deep, opening his mouth the taste the air on his tongue, to breathe Hannibal into his lungs and exhale the carcinogenic _other_ that felt like it was suffocating him.

If asked, he wouldn’t have been able to say how long they stood like that.

_Too long._

_Not long enough._

Since the fall, things had been electrified between them. Will could admit now - if only to himself - that there had always been an undercurrent of _something_ under his skin when he was with Hannibal, but that night with the dragon... whatever had been sparking was suddenly burning bright in his veins as they cut Dolarhyde down and stood in the aftermath together, blending into one creature with the same heart and mind. After waking up, he could feel that the fire had burnt itself down to a steady simmer under the surface, waiting to be ignited again.

He wasn’t sure he would survive another fire like that, but he also wasn’t sure he could survive without one.

Standing in the kitchen holding on to Hannibal felt like he was back on that precipice, everything quieted until the only sound in his head was the steady _lub dub_ of their hearts coming to beat in pace with one another. The only scents were _familiar, Hannibal, home,_ and his breathing evened from gulping gasps to deep inhales and steady exhales. The trembling in his limbs soothed and for a second - just a _tiny_ moment - his mind went completely blank.

It was so shocking that he couldn’t hold on to it though, try as he might to chase after it.

Eventually, Hannibal let his grip loosen and waited for Will to extricate himself at his own pace.

Dinner was a quiet affair afterward and Will fell asleep across their shared - by necessity of their small living quarters - bed almost immediately after the hot bath Hannibal insisted he take.

After that, trips to the market were exclusively Hannibal’s responsibility. He never asked Will about it, or explicitly forbade Will from going – they both knew that wouldn’t have turned out well – only made sure that he always managed to go shopping before Will even realized they needed to. In return, Will made sure they were well stocked on sea life – an activity he could perform in solitude thanks to Hannibal’s forethought in the location of their latest safe house and its proximity to the coastline.

* * *

 

He tried every day for a week to find that moment of silence again, to track it down and pin it in his mind instead of letting it slip through his fingers. Every day it was a new failure, one after the next, leaving him more frustrated and despondent. It wasn’t Hannibal’s _fault_ , but every time Will invaded his space it was with an expectation that _this time_ would be the time that he could find it again, and every time it failed, he was left feeling cold and sickened, hating Hannibal for not giving him what he needed, hating himself for hating Hannibal for something he had no control over, hating not having control… He stopped his attempts after only the one week. It was obvious it would not work, and it was quickly poisoning the fragile tendrils of whatever it was that held the two of them together.

Will retreated and regrouped.

The first few times out on the small fishing boat that came with the house Will was too excited and wired to really appreciate it. Back _before,_ fishing was one of the few times he’d felt close to a quietness in his mind. He’d hoped now that he’d experienced the silence, knew what to look for, he could get it back out there on the water. The first attempts were a complete bust, too caught up in thinking about not thinking to achieve anything. He barely even managed to catch enough for a meal for the two of them. The thought of letting Hannibal down with a meager offering so many times in a row made his next trips more successful. Those came close to what it used to be like. The buzzing settled under his skin; still present, but more of a dull thrum than feeling like a livewire. His thoughts settled and stirred around only a few main topics, only those of relevance – _Hannibal, fishing, Hannibal fishing, Hannibal hunting, Hannibal killing, Hannibal covered in blood, Hannibal ripping his prey’s throat out with his teeth, Hannibal’s lips dripping with blood, Hannibal’s mouth…_ Okay so it wasn’t perfect. His thoughts still swirled in a tangential spiral, but it was better, closer to the silence that he craved deep down in his very marrow. On days like those, he returned home with enough fish to feast on and smoke for future dishes.

By the end of the month however, he had to resign himself to the fact that the close-but-not-quite quiet was all that fishing could provide him. If he was to keep searching for the silence, he would have to look elsewhere.

He thought about recreating that night. _Was it the killing that made him feel so wholly himself? Or was it the acceptance and embrace of his own death?_

He could try both; the former felt wrong to even imagine without Hannibal by his side, but the latter wasn’t really a first choice kind of option. He knew as soon as the thoughts formed that he would do either - both if necessary; _anything_ to figure out how he’d managed to get it all to go away.

* * *

 

“Did you have fun on your little excursion, Will?”

The voice startled him, though he really should have been expecting it. Nonetheless, he flinched, banged his sore, still healing shoulder into the door jam and cursed loudly. Hannibal sighed, exaggerated, and slowly walked over to Will who was still trembling and jittery from the adrenaline of killing and the disappointment of not finding his bliss.

“Let me see,” Hannibal said, reaching out for the shoulder in question. Will was in no mood to be coddled and pulled away roughly from the hands seeking his body. He’d drunk the better part of a bottle of whiskey on his walk back and just wanted to finish drinking until he blacked out. Hannibal, it seemed, was also in no mood for gentleness.

“That wasn’t a request.”

Neither was yet recovered to peak condition - if that was even an option - but Will’s inebriated, exhausted state made him easy to handle and Hannibal had him maneuvered onto the couch face down, shirt off to expose his injured arm in no time. Will’s protests were mostly verbal and nearly incoherent. Hannibal moved with surgical precision, inspecting his lingering wounds and searching for new ones. He stripped Will down to his boxers and turned an equally clinical eye to the rest of his body. A few new bruises and scrapes, more likely from the drunken walk home than whomever he’d chosen as victim for the evening. Will may have been impulsive, but he wasn’t _that_ reckless. He wouldn’t have chosen a target he didn’t know for a fact he could take out alone with minimal risk to himself.

“Get up; you reek of stale cigarettes and cheap liquor. I don’t want it seeping into the fabrics.”

“S’good to know you care,” Will snarked back as he pushed himself to his feet and tried to hold down the bile in the back of his throat. He knew the moment he registered what he’d said that it was a mistake. A hand around his throat and one against his chest pressed him painfully against the wall to his side. Will’s world was spinning, threatening to topple over on its axis.

“ _How dare you_ ,” Hannibal hissed in his ear. The hand around his throat flexed like it was at war with itself - let him go or squeeze until his lips turned blue - and it was threat enough to sober Will up.

“Hannibal I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-” The grip tightened and Will sputtered. The choice between talking and breathing a clear one. Once silenced, Hannibal loosened his grip just barely.

“I understand that you need time to adjust to your new life here - a life, might I add, that has taken a great deal of cultivation and is still quite fragile in its existence - but you are pushing your boundaries William. There is much I am willing to tolerate, especially from you, but recklessness is not among them. You put not only your own life at risk tonight, but mine as well, and the life we are creating together here. I will not accept this behavior, _do you understand?_ ”

Will nodded weakly, unable to do much more. The part of him that would always be an insolent brat wanted to fight back, to tell Hannibal _he_ had no right, but thankfully, that part of his mind stayed silent. Hannibal had every right. This was their lives he was putting at risk. Hannibal didn’t know how careful he’d been. How sure he’d been to make it look like an accident, someone who wouldn’t be missed dying in an unbearably unremarkable way. He was careful. So very, very careful. He wasn’t trying to get them caught; he just wanted to see if he could recapture a fraction of what the dragon had felt like. He’d been foolish to do it without Hannibal by his side anyway. Not just for the safety aspect, but for the richness. It had felt dulled and almost like an out of body experience. As if he was watching himself go through the motions but feeling nothing at all. It was nowhere close to the kind of nothing he’d been looking for and it would never happen again, even without Hannibal’s threats.

“Was it worth it?” Came the snarl in his ear as if reading his thoughts.

He shook his head meekly, a small whimper escaping his throat. _It really, really wasn’t._

“Do I need to go clean up your mess?”

Another shake of the head; confident, sure. _I was careful._

“Are you going to do it again?”

Hannibal let up his grip this time so that Will could form actual words. The word Will intended to speak was a simple “no,” what actually came out was “not without you. Never.”

Hannibal actually growled at that, but it must have been the right answer because he let go and Will immediately crumpled to the floor like marionette whose strings were cut loose. He waited for Hannibal to walk away, to leave him there on the floor alone. It was what he deserved.

A moment passed and nothing happened.

Two moments.

Three.

Finally, hands - gentle and careful - pulling him upright, guiding him to the shower, adjusting the temperature. A shoulder, steadying him as he struggled out of his remaining clothes, as he stepped over the edge of the tub, concentrating on not slipping, not vomiting, not crying.

When he was finally steady, Hannibal turned to go, to leave him with his guilt and shame and rapidly approaching headache.

Will reached out to stop his retreat, upsetting the fragile equilibrium his body had momentarily achieved. He would have fallen on his face were it not for Hannibal’s quick reflexes. Instead, he fell into a soft embrace, so unlike the one that held him pinned to the wall mere moments ago. He felt like he was breaking. Like the whole world was shattering around him and the only thing left in one piece was somehow Hannibal. He knew that if he let go he would fade away into the rest of the world’s tiny shattered pieces. He held on tight and let himself be lowered to the ground alongside Hannibal. His companion chuckled, a humorless sound that echoed through the tiled room.

“My dearest Will, what am I going to do with you?”

Will thought the question was not really for him. He answered it anyway.

“Don’t leave me.” The words stung as they came out. They tasted like shame and neediness.

But Hannibal’s response, whispered into his dripping hair caressed him like truth and he held on tight as the storm finally crashed to shore; salty tears mixed with bathwater and he was back in the water that night.

Hannibal held him through a chorus of “don’t let go,” repeating one word like a mantra until the sleep finally took Will.

Waking up the next morning, he felt like he’d been hit by a bus. His head was killing him, his shoulder ached, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to talk properly for a few days, but Hannibal was still there, arm an anchor around his chest, and he had no wish to be anywhere else. He fell back asleep with their promises replaying on a loop in his mind.

_“Don’t let go.”_

_“Never.”_

* * *

 

Will had run out of options. He didn’t want to die. Not like he had that night. But he needed to _know._ He had to find that peace again, even if it was the last thing he ever did. The search was driving him crazy - well, _crazier._ Objectively he know that it was becoming an obsession, but his objectivity had long ceased to be anything other than one of a thousand voices inside his head that he was trying desperately not to hear.

He almost wished he’d never experienced the silence at all; then, at least, he wouldn’t know what he was missing. He kept getting close, _so goddamn close,_ but it eluded him, and the frustration of failure was building up to a critical mass. He felt himself becoming more irritable as the days passed. Hannibal had noticed as well, _of course,_ the two of them too in tune with each other not to, and made aborted attempts at cheering him up, which just served to piss Will off more. He didn’t need to be coddled like a petulant child. He didn’t _need_ Hannibal to fix him; he could do it his goddamn self.

 _Probably_.

He didn’t _want_ to die, but if he could just come close…

Once the thought was in his mind, it wouldn’t go away. He fought it for almost a week after the miserable mistake that murdering alone had been, but in the end he gave in, let himself see all of the possibilities, all of the options, the outcomes. He preferred the easy drifting off of asphyxiation, it was clean and simple, _intimate_ , but it was difficult to achieve alone. In his imaginings - the ones that had become more fantasy than strategy - it was Hannibal’s hands that help him reach his peace. His skilled surgeon’s hands that knew the exact placement and pressure to use, that held him close against his chest while his vision blurred to nothing and the buzzing stopped.

But he couldn’t ask, knowing the response would not, _could not,_ be in his favor. Those hands had pulled him from the grips of death and thus far, had not seemed inclined to return him there. Those hands were rebuilding and reconstructing a life for the two of them; he wouldn’t help Will throw that away for something so selfish, and Will couldn’t ask him to.

But he also couldn’t stop.

In the end, he decided on the ocean. It was a spur of the moment decision, but one that felt right in his gut the moment it formed in his conscious mind.

He awoke that morning to an empty bed and Hannibal nowhere to be found. Will assumed they must’ve run out of some essential ingredient for dinner and he’d gone to town to retrieve it. Market days usually meant Will had hours and hours to himself.

_Today._

He dressed and made his way out to the boat sans fishing equipment, lunch pack, anything but himself. He needed nothing else. His body was screaming worse even than when he went to the city. His muscles felt tight, coiled, ready to flea at the first chance. His ears were ringing, heart thrumming _presto agitato_ against his ribcage.

He took the boat out to where he knew he could not reach the bottom. Waves crashed against the sides, the smell of salt water filled his nostrils. He closed his eyes and the pendulum swung; he was back, standing on the cliff’s ledge, clutching Hannibal to his chest and pulling them both over into the ocean’s waiting embrace. The water was cold and his first reaction was to gasp. He tamped down that desire and stayed the course, slowly releasing the breath in his lungs, chest constricting like a vice with the need to inhale. He resisted the impulse and concentrated - back to the dragon, back to the same ocean thousands of miles away. His hands clenched into fists - _holding onto fingers slowly sliding away - don’t let get -_ the urge to kick out, to claw his way back up to the surface, was strong, but he managed to hold out, waiting for the buzzing to stop.

Moments passed and his chest burned, head felt like it was about to explode - _still waiting_.

Panic bubbled up - it wasn’t working, _why wasn’t it working?_ \- He was drowning himself for nothing. His body was on fire underneath the water and his goddamn brain would not. Shut. Off.

 _Waiting_.

It wasn’t getting any better, only worse. Hannibal was inside his head now, judging him, reprimanding him - _did you really think you could go back, Will? By yourself? Did you think you could make it stop? Without me? -_ calling out to him - _Will? Will!_ \- His body lurched upwards without his consent, his legs felt like lead, completely ineffective at propelling him to the surface, his arms did all of the work without conscious instruction, shoulder screaming at him for the abuse.

_He was too far down._

_He wouldn’t make it back up and it wasn’t even worth it._

_He didn’t even leave a note. Hannibal would find that unbearably rude._

His hand suddenly broke the surface of the frigid water, followed quickly by his face, gasping for air that burned his lungs. His eyes stung, his vision blurry and spotted black. The boat was rocking a few feet from where he’d left it and he barely had the strength to pull himself over the side and tumble harshly onto the unforgiving wood.

He lay heaving in the bottom of the boat until the pain subsided enough for him to focus on something else. He had been close to recreating the night, but he couldn’t have felt further from what he was looking for. Maybe it was gone forever. His one chance at feeling normal, sane, _silent_ , washed away from him the night he was pulled from the abyss. He tried to be angry at Hannibal for it, but the most he could muster was anger at himself for not being worth the effort it had taken to save his sorry ass. He’d spent this entire time chasing after something that didn’t exist and ignoring everything that he’d been given a second chance to have. He would stop. He _had_ to stop. He’d lived with the buzzing before, he could do it again. He would stop chasing phantoms and give his new life an actual chance, not the half-assed passive participation that he’d been carrying on for the past few months. He couldn’t do this again. Couldn’t let himself hope for the silence only to have it elude him again and again and again. It was driving him to his breaking point. Let it continue to elude him. He would forget soon enough what it felt like to be still. All too soon, it would be nothing but a distant memory, one he would lock away in a room and refuse to revisit.

He just needed to stop thinking about it.

He stayed in the boat until his shivering became unbearable, then made his way to shore, back along the rocky path to the house, stumbling with his numb feet and frigid joints. Halfway to the house, something brushed against his limp hand and he looked down to see a bedraggled looking mutt, a mix somewhere between a hound and a bulldog.

“Hey there,” his voice was harsh to his own ears, but the dog seemed undeterred. “What’s your name?”

“I thought I’d leave that up to you,” Hannibal’s voice came, the sounds of gravel crunching under ridiculously expensive shoes reaching Will’s ears before his brain could catch up to what was happening.

Hannibal was back.

With a dog.

Hannibal had brought him a dog.

He had just nearly killed himself while Hannibal was out acquiring him a dog.

He’d left no note. No explanation. He couldn’t recall the last things they’d even said to each other. Was it last night? The day before? Will would sometimes go days without speaking unless he was forced, and Hannibal had been careful not to force him. Had adapted to asking questions only when necessary, answerable with a nod or shake of the head. What was the last thing he’d said to the man who was now standing in front of him, taking in his sopping wet clothes and lack of fishing gear with a suspicious tilt of the head.

His heart was beating an erratic, painful rhythm in his chest and when he took a step forward he collapsed, knees buckling and hitting the ground hard, driving the gravel into his numbed flesh. The dog at his side yipped and he heard Hannibal sigh before everything went black.

* * *

 

When he woke he was dry and naked, wrapped in a plush robe and blanket laying in front of a roaring fire in the living room. Hannibal greeted him with a steaming cup of what he assumed was herbal tea, though with Hannibal you could never be sure.

“Are you ready to discuss this yet?” He spoke as he sat in a chair across from Will, Hannibal’s voice cool and even, taking Will back to the days in his Baltimore office. Not the man he was used to seeing anymore. Not _his_ Hannibal.

It put Will immediately on the defensive.

“There’s nothing to discuss. It was an experiment that failed. It won’t happen again.” He said into his teacup.

Hannibal sighed, long suffering and leaned forward in his chair, losing some of his mask and shifting into the man Will had become more used to seeing.

“I’ve watched you drift for months now. I thought perhaps you were still angry with me or that you needed to properly grieve for what you left behind that night on the cliff. I’ve given you time and space to sort it out in your own. I thought that was the best course of action. I did not think you would go so far as to attempt suicide. That was an unfortunate oversight on my part.” His words were clinical, but Will could see the almost imperceptible changes in his face at that last part. He felt the need to explain, to make Hannibal understand.

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” he began, but the rest of the words died on his tongue. _Wasn’t he?_

“Then what were you doing, Will?” He asked, obvious in tone that he believed Will just about as much as Will believed himself.

“I was just...” _what was he doing? How to explain?_ “I was just trying to make it stop.”

“Make what stop?” Hannibal prompted, soft, encouraging but making sure not to startle. Will considered briefly that Hannibal could’ve had a successful career working with horses. And as it was, Will felt about as useful at communicating as a horse.

He gestured, frustrated with his lack of ability to articulate.

“The buzzing, th-the noise. Here,” he grabbed at his hair as if he could claw the sounds out with his fingers, “and here,” he pinched the skin of his forearms, his biceps, his hands. “All of it.”

“Buzzing?” Hannibal urged.

“I’m not explaining it right. I can’t - it’s like there’s this constant hum, in my mind, under my skin, that never settles. It rises and falls but never ever _ceases_. It’s as if my body is a clenched fist that never relaxes and my mind has the sounds and experiences and feelings of a thousand different lives but none of them is mine, purely unequivocally _mine_. I can narrow it down to a few, can focus when I’m placing myself in the mind of another, but I cannot isolate myself from it and it’s driving me crazy.” He was breathing heavily now, like somehow speaking the words activated the feelings inside of him to come alive. His chest already ached from depriving it of oxygen for so long, now it constricted for an entirely different reason.

“And this is a new development?” He wished Hannibal would let it go, let him mourn his poor decision-making in peace, but he also knew that if Hannibal were to get up and leave him in that moment he would surely call him back in an instant.

“No, not at all, I just hadn’t be able to imagine an end to it before.”

“And you believed the ocean could do that for you now? Put an end to it?”

“It did before!” The outburst surprised them both, though Hannibal’s only reaction was a microscopic twitch of the eye. “Or killing did. Or you did. _I don’t know_. That night, before the fall, I told you it was beautiful. It was goddamn perfection and I can’t,” _I can’t get it back_. He choked on a sob, collected himself, continued. “Like I said, today was an experiment, and it failed, miserably.”

Hannibal went silent for a moment, and Will could see the gears turning, knew the moment it clicked. “In recreating the variables of that night, you found that killing again didn’t give you what you were looking for, so you made the obvious choice between experimenting with me and death.” He sits back, goodbye Hannibal, welcome back Dr. Lecter. “I see.”

 _No, no no no no no._ That was the wrong conclusion - the obvious one, sure, but Hannibal was better than that. He _had_ to see beyond that. Will scrambled forward to close the space Hannibal’s retreat created.

“No, you don’t.”

“ _Will_ ,”

“ _Hannibal_.” He leveled Will with a look of disappointment. A look that said he thought they were past the lies, and Will pleaded with his own eyes. Reaching out physically and verbally, he had to make him understand. “That wasn’t it. I already knew you were a part of it - or well I figured it out after, after I killed that man - he was a horrible man by the way, entirely despicable and complete rude, you would have approved - but I had tried that already and it didn’t work.”

Hannibal asked the question with a movement of his eyebrows instead of words.

“Months ago, the last time I went shopping.”

The recollection lit up in Hannibal’s eyes, but he didn’t move, kept up his mask, his clinical analysis.

“You were overstimulated and sought grounding.”

“It was more than feeling grounded; for a split second it was gone, all of it except for you and me and that moment. I tried for days to replicate it, but it never happened again.”

“Well that certainly explains your odd behavior,” Hannibal conceded. Will fumbled for a reply. He couldn’t remember Hannibal mentioning his behavior at all during the time, or reacting in any way like he was suspicious of it. Then again, Will had been so inside his head, he’s not entirely sure he would have recognized it if he had. He could feel the flush blooming on his cheeks and knew it had nothing to do with the crackling fire at his back.

“I thought I was being discrete,” he admitted.

Hannibal raised a carefully manicured eyebrow at him, his patented ‘calling Will out on his bullshit’ expression.

“You threw yourself at me at all hours of the day and then followed it with nearly a month of hiding out on your fishing boat. Ah yes, very discrete.”

“Clearly I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Clearly.” A hint of a smile appeared and disappeared in a fraction of a second. If Will had been anyone else, he would have missed it. Just that fast, Hannibal was back to seriousness, to picking Will apart until he was satisfied with whatever pieces were left. “Perhaps if I had known what you were attempting I could have been of more help.”

Will’s frustration came out in an embarrassingly high-pitched whine.  

“That’s the whole point. I didn’t _want_ you to know. I depend on you for too much as it is, I didn’t want this to be another thing for you to have to fix. I thought I needed to fix myself.”

“By drowning yourself?”

“By _finding_ myself.” He was on his stinging knees in front of Hannibal, pleading, praying for him to understand what he himself was only now just coming to realize.

“And did you?”

Will shook his head, the movement causing a sharp ache in his skull.

“No. I felt further from myself than I have since Dolarhyde.”

“And why do you suppose that is?” Hannibal’s expression stayed the same, but Will heard the catch in his voice belying the calm demeanor.

“Because you weren’t with me.” Will answered before he processed what he was saying, but as soon as it was out, he knew it to be true. _Hannibal was the missing piece. He always had been._ He spoke the revelation as it came to him. “It was never about doing this on my own; it was about doing it _as myself_. And I am more myself with you than I have ever been.”

“To see and to be seen is a rare gift indeed,” Hannibal breathed, barely above a whisper. His hands were trembling by his sides and Will didn’t think he’d ever seen him so raw and open before, not even in the midst of killing or the aftermath.

Will’s hands found Hannibal’s squeezing, reassuring, of what, he wasn’t entirely certain, but it seemed to be right thing to do. Hannibal laced their fingers together, bringing their joined hands to his lips in silent prayer.

“Do not attempt to leave me like that again, Will. I do not think I could bear a world without you in it.”

“Nor I one without you. I’m sorry Hannibal.”

“What’s done is done. It seems it was a necessary step in our journey, though one I do not wish you to repeat any time soon.”

“Neither do I.”

Will brought one of Hannibal’s hands up to his own lips, kissing the palm in supplication, reverence, promise, before placing it against his scarred cheek. He felt the thumb caress over the marred flesh and leaned into the press. Hannibal’s eyes never left his as he moved forward in his chair and slid to his knees in front of Will; equals, pressed shoulder to chest to thigh. Breathing each other in, searching and truly _seeing_ one another.

A bark erupted from behind the door and the building tension suddenly shattered. Will turned toward the sound.

“What have you done with Charlie?”

“Charlie? Here I thought we were having a moment but you were away choosing dog names.”

Will wanted to laugh. He felt giddy with it, high on Hannibal’s understanding, forgiveness, acceptance - on his own. “Nonsense. I named him before passing out. I was just a little busy losing consciousness to properly introduce you.”

“Ah, of course. He wouldn’t stop treading on you once I laid you by the fire, so I left him in the kitchen with a snack. He must have finished it and grown bored. What?”

Will was turned back to face Hannibal, staring with a look he could not see, but knew could only be described as lovestruck. He didn’t even care anymore.

“You brought me a dog.”

Hannibal nodded slowly, surreptitiously checking the heat of his forehead with fingers sliding along his scalp, lightly scratching and massaging.  

“Yes Will, I thought we had established that. Are you feeling lightheaded?”

“No, well yes, but not from passing out.”

He leaned forward, barely any space between them already; forehead pressed against Hannibal’s, noses brushing against one another. Hannibal parted his lips, breath hitched almost inaudible in a sigh Will took as permission to proceed and he closed the distance between them. Will felt like he was burning, between the fire in the hearth and the one if in veins, the searing heat of Hannibal’s lips on his after so long. So much time spent in the dance, the courtship, so many wasted moments _not_ feeling the soft wet slide of Hannibal’s tongue against his own. The flirtation made in contorted flesh and bone leading them here, hinting at the potential, but never coming close to the reality. Will gave himself over to Hannibal in that kiss, his forgiveness and need to be forgiven fully sated by bitten lips and curled tongues. His strength, his weakness, all were Hannibal’s to do with as he pleased, and in return Hannibal surrendered to him entirely - consuming whilst being consumed, an equal exchange of ownership, of power, of commitment.

Another bark brought them both back to reality, though they were slow to part and left barely inches between themselves once they had.

“If I’d known all it would take was a dog, I could have saved us both a lot of time and misery.”

“Simplicity has never been our way. For future reference though, I can be bribed in all manner of ways by the promise of a dog.”

“I will keep that in mind.” A smile shaped the lips pressed to Wills forehead. “I suppose we should see what Charlie is getting up to, and get you something to eat.” Hannibal moved like it was a physical struggle to put space between them. Will could relate.

“I don’t suppose you managed to catch anything whilst becoming one with the ocean earlier?” Hannibal asked, offering Will a hand to stand and lacing their fingers together, not letting go even once Will had his balance.

Will stared at him, blinked once - Hannibal offered another smile, a small upturn of lips that on Hannibal may as well have been an ear-to-ear grin - and burst into laughter. It hurt his lungs, throat, brain, but when was the last time he’d experienced any pleasure without the payment of pain?

“Oh, the man has jokes now,” he said once his breath returned to him.

“I have an impeccable sense of humor,” Hannibal replied seriously, leading them toward the kitchen to prepare dinner. Will leaned against the counter and watched as Charlie followed at Hannibal’s heels, waiting for high-quality table scraps. His heart contracted painfully as his high faded. _This couldn’t be true_ , it was too close to the fantasies he barely allowed himself to indulged in, the domestic bliss of _home_ and _love_ unconditional, it was too much. The words swirled around his head: _undeserving, damaged, monster, maniac, unlovable, not enough, too much._

“Will, come back to me,” hands on either side of his face, pulling his thoughts forward, present. He reached out; pulling Hannibal into the tightest embrace he could manage.

“Tell me this isn’t a joke, or a dream, or a fevered delusion. Please be real,” he whispered against the other man’s shoulder.

“This is real Will,” he threads the words into Will’s curls, imprints them into his flesh, presses them against his lips. “This is real.”

 

* * *

 

Afterward, when he was full and warm from ample amounts of Hannibal’s fancy chicken soup, stretched out on a makeshift bed of pillows and blankets in front of the fading fire, Charlie curled up at his feet and Hannibal at his side, he let his eyes fall shut, soaking it all in, opening himself up in the very way he’d been avoiding for months. His breathing slowed to match the in and out of the ribcage pressed against his own. He let himself see through the scene Hannibal’s eyes - Will, soft and open, beautiful despite the ugly scar marring his cheek, or perhaps because of it. He reached out, intertwining his self with Hannibal’s, and let the other man’s joy and contentment mix with his own, seep into his very bones, satisfaction and disbelief and awe making a home in his marrow. The nervousness, the fear of startling a fragile thing into flight; the surety that it would always return.

He breathed in the scent of _them_ ; their home, their dog, their love, and exhaled the little remaining tension in his body. His limbs felt heavy and present in a way that they rarely had, and he was distinctly aware of the weight of his body against the floor. The realization snuck up on him slow, but felt like a punch to the gut nevertheless. He felt Hannibal’s fingertips stroking his face before he felt the tears they were wiping away.

“What is it?” Hannibal asked into the silence, and all Will could do was sob.

He reached up to hold the hand cupping his jaw and waited for the waves to subside, knowing that when they did, Hannibal would still be there. Still be holding on.

“It’s so quiet,” he said, finally able to draw a breath with only a slight tremble. He held on to the darkness a moment longer, not wanting to see confusion when he finally looked at Hannibal’s face. He didn’t think he could explain how profoundly _right_ everything felt in that moment; that the thing he’d been literally killing himself to find all these months had finally, _finally_ found him, and in that moment was everything he ever needed.

When he did finally open his eyes to see Hannibal’s, there was nothing but pure adoration and pride staring back at him.

He should have known he wouldn’t have to explain himself to Hannibal. Hannibal understood. He’d always understood; it had just taken Will a little while to figure it out.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Feel free to leave a comment or kudos, and check out my other works


End file.
